One of my husband's best friends, Saul Brenner, died in 2015. Born in 1919, Saul was first-generation American, a father, a husband, a WWII veteran, an accountant.
He was also a musician and artist.
Saul was a student of mid-century minimalism. For 40 years he worked in both found materials and purchased non-traditional media including colored acrylic sheets, now commonly referred to by the trademarked names Plexi-glass or Lucite. They are colorful, structured dreams; a little late Piet Mondrian meets early Kenneth Noland.
For years I've wanted to experiment with using fabric in ways that are inspired by Saul's work. Fabric behaves differently, of course, than the acrylic glass, so I expect a different feeling in the end.
We love that we get to live with a small collection of Saul's artwork, some gifted by him, others purchased from his estate.
I love a good sexist joke about why the Magi were so late to the party.
The truth is that among the diverse cast of characters that tells this story, it's them I identify with most. I can totally see myself among them, following the stars, grossly underestimating travel time, fretting that my gift is all wrong, second-guessing my decision to make the trip in the first place.
When else have history and time conspired in such a perfect way? The journey to Epiphany begins as one year ends; it ends as another year begins.
And somewhere among the starts and stops, beginnings and endings, my reset button gets walloped. I'm able to let stuff go: To the thrift store, recycling bin and trash; to forgiving and forgetting; to imagining, wondering and wandering.
I'm happy to be traveling.